


Here You Are

by jadeandlilac



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 04:26:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadeandlilac/pseuds/jadeandlilac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the Spanish flu sweeps through Downton, Robert returns to Cora's bedside and reflects upon the woman he married.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here You Are

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Valentine's Day exchange over at downtonexchange on LJ, for crimson_tidebex. Thanks for the great prompt and the opportunity to write these two, Beccy! Thanks also to the two lovely ladies who gave this a read-through and all their enthusiasm! :)
> 
> I don't own these characters, especially not the Astors.

It has been a long time since she has truly needed him. In nearly thirty years of marriage those moments have been few and far between, and especially sparse, it seems, these past few years. But watching her in the throes of fever, he is reminded that she is only human – thin skin and a body that is all too easily broken, though her heart is strong. Stronger than his, he thinks.

Her breathing has gone shallow, her words turned feeble and senseless, emitted from between dry lips. It has not occurred to him until now, as the sky begins to show faint blue-gray outside the windows and the birds are only just stirring, that she might have died this night. That she might still; the illness is hard to fight and harder to fathom. He sits on the edge of the bed and takes one hot hand into his. When he was a boy there had been a gypsy woman who came to the village each year along with the fair; he remembers the smell of her, burning herbs pungent in the autumn evening. He recalls her long fingers hovering over his outstretched palm and then Rosamund's, which was small and white as a star in the darkness, tracing the length of the line she marked out for life. Now he turns Cora's limp hand over on his knee and delicately uncurls the fingers. He studies the faint crease, this detail of her body which he has never thought to appreciate. But his eyes are unpracticed in this, and he cannot tell whether the line is long or short or of an average length, or even whether he has managed to identify it correctly. His boyhood seems an age ago, and it had most likely been utter nonsense. Still, he rubs the pad of his thumb gently back and forth over the line. He settles into the rhythm of her breath and tries to forget the things he has done to wrong her while she lay suffering – the feel of that other woman a hollow comfort despite her solid presence there in his arms.

He pushes that thought away and in its wake feels a terrible sense of shame burning through him. He waits for Cora to wake, soundly refusing to believe that she might not.

* * *

The first time he sees her, he knows just what she is: an heiress in want of a title. And though she is coy, and well as she may play the role of simpering coquette, he does not think she would deny her intentions if he asked her. He does not, of course. He resists the urge to flinch when she laughs too loudly or smiles too broadly, tries not to smirk at the anxiety painted on the face of their hostess when Miss Levinson's enthusiasm compels her to gesture a little too expansively, a little too close to the china vase that must certainly be a family heirloom. Stepping up beside her Robert steadies the trinket, but finds himself quite amused when the girl gives a becoming expression of embarrassment and her cheeks flush prettily.

It just so happens that he has a title – one he does not yet fully appreciate, though he will in time – which he is willing, desperate some might say, to share in turn for a certain sum. Her fortune first and foremost, her hand second. All throughout their courtship even as he is put at ease by her amiable warmth, and sometimes even charmed by her missteps, he cannot fail to notice the occasional hard edge of her smile, nor the guarded, appraising way in which he once caught her watching him. He cannot help but acknowledge that he needs her more than she needs him. Men are easy to charm and to someone like her – someone who knows no better, he thinks – is there truly a difference between Baron and Viscount, Earl and Duke? How can there be, when she is continually forgetting courtesies and mistaking titles? Yet his father is ill; he has always been sickly and will certainly not improve with age or the added distress of financial strain putting the estate in danger. What Robert wants just then is more time, perhaps to find a better woman, one who does not call quite so much attention to herself merely by speaking.

It is Rosamund who reminds him, none too gently, of his duty and that sometimes, it simply does not matter what one wants.

So Cora Levinson becomes Cora Crawley, much to his mother's chagrin, and when she reaches for the wrong fork at the dinner that follows the ceremony he feels a hot rush of embarrassment and wonders if it hasn't all been some terrible mistake. He catches Cora's eye and surreptitiously indicates the proper utensil. Rosamund has seen, he realizes; he will surely hear about this tomorrow. But he is rather pleasantly surprised when his sister makes no comment about Cora's questionable grasp on etiquette – indeed, she is far less cutting toward his new bride than he would have imagined. This surprises him only until the next few months have shown him that Cora has claws of her own, and more than enough fight in her to be getting on with.

"It's her American blood," Rosamund says through lips that are fighting a smile. Robert is more anxious than he should like to admit to hear the raised voices of Cora and his mother as they quarrel over the arrangements for the upcoming flower show. She comes to bed that night still tense from the day, head held high as if daring him to admonish her for disagreeing with his mother. He feels a pang of nostalgia for the innocent young girl he brought riding in the park before their marriage, full of flattery for the beauty of the grounds and house, happily proclaiming that they had nothing of the kind back home, _nothing at all like this_. Even if the awe and naiveté of that day had been an act, he nevertheless finds this new, strong-willed woman Cora sometimes reveals herself to be slightly off-putting. He kisses her cheek and retires as usual to his dressing room.

During those first few months of their marriage, he is wary of her. He is never sure who will greet him at the breakfast table: the sweet and uncomplicated face of a young girl eager to please, or the piqued expression and slightly narrowed eyes whose meaning he cannot seem to decipher. Some days she disappears on the white mare that was a wedding gift, coming in long past luncheon once Carson has had a chance to work himself into a frenzy over her absence, and his mother has merely made a dry remark about her utter lack of propriety. Her hair is a sight and she trails mud up the stairs; later that evening when he asks cautiously where she has been, she only shrugs and bids him goodnight. He does not know which of them is more at fault for this inability to discuss even the simplest of matters – him for not asking, or her for being unable to respond when he finally does. But though it nags at him, he cannot quite find it surprising – they know, after all, nearly nothing about one another. Perhaps this is simply what a marriage is meant to be.

Later he thinks it must have been clear to everyone but him, though at the time it never occurs to Robert that Cora might be homesick. It was she, after all, who left her country and her family, her friends and everything she knew all for the sake of a title. It does not seem logical to him that a woman like that should pine for a place she so willingly gave up.

"A woman like _what_?" Rosamund hisses when he points this out. They are alone in the library, Cora having missed luncheon on account of a headache yet again. "And what kind of man are you, to marry her for the money? Don't think it makes her heartless – we all do what we must, Robert." Her eyes are hard and unavoidable, and sometimes – though not now – he thinks they know him better than he knows himself. In the end, it is Rosamund who suggests a change of scenery, time away from Mama and poor, ailing Papa, and from Downton.

At first Robert can't see the point: why should he and Cora love each other any better in America than they do in Yorkshire? But Rosamund takes matters into her own hands, as she has always been wont to do, and mentions the idea at dinner; before Robert can protest or even swallow his mouthful of pudding, Cora's face has broken into a smile, fork clattering unpleasantly against china plate.

"Oh Robert, how wonderful," and she clasps her hands together very much like a small child at the prospect of a cake. Then, more calmly as she notes her mother-in-law's raised eyebrow, "That would make me very happy."

* * *

New York is a dazzling whirl of unfamiliarity, the city somehow more vivid than anything he has ever known; colors seem brighter, noises louder, and half the people he meets have accents that are even less comprehensible than his wife's. They stay for a few weeks in her mother's house facing the park while Mrs. Levinson delights in showing off her new aristocratic son-in-law to what appears to be every last one of the Four Hundred, and then some.

Early one morning as he sits with a newspaper, half listening to the sounds of men and horses in the street outside, he is surprised to see Cora appear, fresh-faced and dressed for a walk.

"Oh!" she says, her eyes widening at the sight of him. "I thought I'd like a walk in the park. I always used to walk in the mornings, you know."

"Yes, of course," he replies, and the silence stretches between them in the faint morning sunlight.

"The park is ever so beautiful at this time of the morning," she says rather awkwardly. "If you would care to join me, I'm sure you would find it quite charming."

"Yes," Robert says, because he has indeed been meaning to see the park for himself, but also because he is still shocked to see his wife up and dressed at this hour; because there is something about Cora now that is entirely new to him – a flash of that girl who forgot herself and nearly toppled a china vase, whose blush made him notice for the first time how beautiful she was. "Yes, I am sure I should enjoy that very much."

Robert marvels at how the noise of horses' hooves and carriage wheels seems to fade as they make their way into the park. It is expansive, with bridges to be crossed and fountains and ponds to linger over; they even pass a flock of complacent sheep grazing in a meadow and he shakes his head with a smile thinking, _Americans_ , though he must admit the place is rather lovely. Cora is waving off a boy selling newspapers, her bright smile seemingly unfazed by the child's grubby hands and insistent pestering. He is more astonished than he is willing to show when on a whim she trades a bright coin for an apple from a vendor and bites into the fruit after only the vaguest attempt to clean it against her skirts. There is an ease about her that he has never seen before – she moves as if nobody is watching, as if she is entirely at home. And of course, he realizes, she is.

Their walks continue every morning for the duration of their stay in New York, until they are set to depart for Newport, where the Levinsons' summer home has been opened for their use despite it being quite early in the season.

"Newlyweds!" declares Mrs. Levinson in her usual, carrying way that makes it seem as though she may burst into song. Robert shifts uneasily; neither the word nor the sentiment is quite appropriate for them. Yet off they are shuffled to Newport, by coach and then by ferry and coach again until they are there in Cora's childhood home. The place is small but comfortable, set amidst an immaculately tended lawn on cliffs overlooking a sea that lashes the rocks in wide swaths of white foam. Cora is happier than he has ever seen her – more joyous, he notes, than she was even on the day of their wedding.

"I _have_ missed it," she cries as the driver hands her down at the front of the house. She does not wait to change from her traveling clothes, but discards her hat in the drawing room and is out the open French doors before he can say a word in praise of the house. He watches as his wife trips lightly down the sloping lawn as she must have done all the days of her childhood spent in this place. He remembers her polite questions about Downton – when it had been built and by whom, what sort of flowers they grew in the gardens, who had done some of the more memorable paintings in various rooms – and he knows that all her keen interest then had been feigned. He cannot blame her for it and even appreciates the gesture, for looking about him now he sees nothing to inspire in him the flood of affection that gushes from Cora. How could he have expected her to love his home all at once, especially when it is so very unlike her own? He chides himself for that foolishness now.

They spend their time walking the cliffs and driving out along the Avenue past the other grand houses – though he cannot help but admit that none are so grand as Downton – and down through the acres of still wild land to the sea on the other side of the island. Everywhere they turn there is the sea, and Robert realizes now how strange she must find Yorkshire, how she must think the sprawling countryside stifling after a youth spent between two islands, a life measured by the tide.

It is the beginning of the summer season and Cora says that the Astors have invited them; "Caroline Astor?" Robert asks, a woman he has never met though naturally her reputation precedes her.

Cora's eyes go wide as she says, "It's _Mrs._ Astor – always Mrs. Astor."

Her expression is so comical that Robert laughs and says, "I shall try not embarrass you, my dear."

The Astors' home is small – they call it a cottage, after all – and it glitters in the surrounding dusk like a jewel in the hollow of a hand as the carriage makes its way down the drive. He can see Cora positively bursting with anticipation, hardly able to sit still as they pull up under the portico and she waits for the driver to hand her down. Fidgeting in the pool of light on the front step, she is lovelier than he has ever seen her.

"Here she is, our own little Countess – Cora darling, you look positively radiant." The broad drawl of Caroline Astor – Mrs. Astor, he corrects himself with an inward smile – meets them as they are ushered into the ballroom. Cora is overtaken immediately by a hoard of people, mostly women, eager to squeeze her hands and kiss her cheeks; she submits to every last caress with good grace, and he can tell that she enjoys it immensely. It must make a change from England where she is more like some strange creature in a menagerie, one whose behavior they cannot entirely trust, than the darling daughter come home again.

"Well if it isn't Miss Cora Levinson! Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" the Astor heir fairly crows with delight. His wife looks on, less than pleased at the fervor with which her husband clasps both of Cora's hands, then twirls her playfully as if they are dancing. "Last summer wasn't the same without you, I hope that husband of yours won't make a habit of hiding you away out on the moors." Cora's laughter as her old friend leads her to the floor seems to pluck at Robert, and he feels the first stirrings of disappointment at being left alone until his arm is confidently taken by his hostess. He learns quickly that there can be no pretense with Mrs. Astor, and she brings him around for introduction and inspection as if he is the newest horse in her stable.

The ball proves not to be a disappointment; it seems to matter very little to most of the young ladies present that Robert is a married man, and they tread on one another's toes for a dance with the handsome young man who will be Earl of Grantham one day. Perhaps it is a testament to the inherent optimism of these people that they call his wife Countess already, reverence in their voices. For him the evening becomes a whirl of colored gowns and the small but elegant room appears to be suffused with a golden glow that spills out onto the sloping lawn. There are plenty of men whose names he has heard to shake his hand or clap him on the back – he can barely remember their names and decides he really ought to have listened more carefully to Cora's surreptitious whispering in his ear, her effort to prepare him for this. Nevertheless, all the men he does not know come to make a fuss discussing country sports and politics, all the while making unsubtle references to his land and title, his wealth that they imagine to be far greater than it is. They would all call themselves old money – or Mrs. Astor would, which Cora says is the only thing that really matters – but of course their families are laughably young, their fortunes nearly all earned and their grand houses bought or recently built. He muses on this thought as he stands poised in the open doorway, wondering vaguely where Cora has got to; it has been years since he stood in a ballroom entirely filled with unfamiliar faces.

He makes his way down the lawn, the strains of a waltz fading, replaced by the steady roll of the waves. Cora stands alone, the hem of her gown rippling like water, whispering over the grass while she observes the sea.

"I do love it here," she says without looking up, and gives a sigh – though a happy one, he thinks. "Everyone's buying up property here you know, the Vanderbilts are putting in a house on Ochre Point." She gestures vaguely as if this means anything to him. "It's terribly big and vulgar, so Charlotte says." Her voice trails off, the intricacies of their habitual small talk deserting her. He follows her gaze, which seems to stretch far out to sea. When she turns back to him, her eyes are unnaturally bright.

"Has tonight been an awful bore for you? We could leave now, if you like," she offers, though it is clear she would like nothing more than to stay right here.

"No," he says quickly, "No, not at all. I just – I was looking for you. And here you are," he finishes rather lamely, his voice low in the quiet of the hour after midnight. He can see tears now, glimmering in Cora's doll-wide eyes as she looks up at him with a tremulous smile.

She steps closer to him and slips a hand into his; he has no idea where her gloves have gone – and very likely neither does she – but he likes the sudden warmth of her skin against his. Here she is, he thinks, the woman he had not known until now: tears and a radiant smile both at once. Her hair is coming loose in the light breeze and he resists the urge to tuck it back into place.

"And here you are," she says, her voice as soft as the bare fingertips she lays against his cheek. She reaches up to kiss him, as if to say, _finally. Here you are._

* * *

The first intelligible word to pass her lips is, amazingly, his name. It is not a question, though her eyes are still heavy, lids fluttering weakly. When he squeezes her hand he is heartened to feel her fingers tighten in response.

"My darling," he sighs; he had not known he was holding his breath, but it is a relief to let it out, to see her stirring slowly beneath the sheets. She looks up at him through eyes that are, as always, almost painfully blue.

"Robert," she murmurs again, "Have you really been here all night?" Her voice is hoarse, but there are definite notes of incredulity and amusement hidden there.

"It was O'Brien who did most of the hovering, I must admit – she makes a much better nursemaid than I do, I'm afraid." Her laugh comes slightly muffled against the pillow, then becomes a cough, though she continues to smile. He says, "But I'm here now."

Cora squeezes his hand once more, her eyes already closing again. She says, "I know."

Robert thinks that if Rosamund were here, she would remind him none too gently that sometimes, what one wants has been there all along.


End file.
